


Boy

by GallifreyisBurning



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Cinderella has always been that way, Fairy Godfather Sirius Black, Fluff, Harry Potter as Cinderella, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Most of the Dursley's bullshit is canon, Prince Draco Malfoy, Snark, and other feel good things, and so has Harry Potter, because why not, but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23821513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyisBurning/pseuds/GallifreyisBurning
Summary: "Once upon a time, in an England not quite identical to the one we know in our world, there was a boy named Harry Potter. Harry had once been a very happy child, loved and cherished by his young parents, and loving them very much in return. It was unfortunate that his life could not stay that way — but then, if it had, there would be no story to tell, would there?"This is a reimagining of Cinderella starring Harry as the mistreated ingenue and Draco as the reluctant prince. So, nothing's changed, really.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 54
Kudos: 438





	1. Prologue

**Prologue: Harry**

Once upon a time, in an England not quite identical to the one we know in our world, there was a boy named Harry Potter. Harry had once been a very happy child, loved and cherished by his young parents, and loving them very much in return. It was unfortunate that his life could not stay that way — but then, if it had, there would be no story to tell, would there? And so, as in so many stories, the family was struck by a tragedy, and when Harry was one year old, his parents died, leaving him in the questionable care of his mother’s sister, Petunia, and her hateful husband Vernon. 

Petunia and Vernon had a son of their own already, Dudley, who was worse than Harry in every way. Where Harry was cheerful and loving, Dudley was bratty and spoilt. Where Harry was bright and curious, Dudley was lazy and mean. But Petunia and Vernon adored their son and, therefore, anyone who was different from him or took their attention from him for even a moment was seen as a burden and a waste. It would be a hideous understatement to say that they were not pleased when the infant Harry came into their lives.

Even if it weren’t for the fact that he was thrust upon them against their will, the Dursleys still would have hated Harry for what he was. You see, in this England, magic ran beneath the earth, and also in some of its people. Sometimes it ran in bloodlines, but it was also known to appear at random in some children, utterly changing their paths in life. Although there wasn’t _strictly_ a rule that noble families came from magical blood, magic was a coveted skill, and the great bloodlines tended to breed for it, allying their magical children with other powerful wix to ensure their own continued power. Thus the odd magical child born to a non-magical family was both blessed and cursed — blessed with the potential to advance their family’s status, and cursed with the jealousy of those who were not so lucky. Harry Potter was just such a child.

From the moment the infant Harry first blinked his eyes open at her, Petunia knew just what he was. The eyes of most English people were brown, or an unremarkable grey sort of blue. Some might be in the range of hazel, or perhaps might veer toward an understated green. The eyes of wix, however, glinted with the magic that ran within their veins, presenting in clear, bright shades — vivid violet, icy silver, purest gold, cerulean blue. Harry’s eyes, wide and curious as he took in the sour face of his aunt, gleamed a green like summer grass or the most flawlessly cut emerald. The insult of it — that this orphaned child that she had been burdened with had been born with a gift the likes of which she could never give her own son — curdled what little kindness the woman might have had for her nephew. She hated him instantly.

Petunia and Vernon were in agreement that the boy should never know that he had the potential to do magic. They were unsure, initially, how they might keep the fact from him (eventually, he would undoubtedly learn what his unusual eyes meant; even if they didn’t tell him so, some stranger would surely let slip what they signified) but in this one thing, luck was on their side. It was clear from a very young age that the child had atrocious eyesight. This gave his aunt and uncle the excuse to purchase a pair of thick-lensed, round-framed spectacles for him, which served the double purpose of allowing him to walk without bumping into walls and also largely obscuring the otherwise-telling brightness of his gaze. 

As soon as he was able to toddle about on his sturdy little legs, Harry was treated like the servant his family could not quite afford — or perhaps they could have if they had ever denied Dudley a single thing he wanted, but it made much more sense to take advantage of the free labor available to them than to weather one of Dudley’s tantrums. Thus, the small Potter boy swiftly learned to cook and to clean, to mend and to sew, to garden and to do any number of other tasks the Dursleys saw as beneath them. He slept on a small pallet bed in the dusty, spider-filled cupboard below the kitchen stairs, and knew himself only as “Boy,” which was what his aunt and uncle yelled when they needed him to take on another chore or when they wanted to box his ears for some perceived failure. He was eleven when he discovered that he was actually called “Harry,” something he learned when, while cleaning Vernon’s study, he came across a piece of paper asserting that a baby named Harry Potter was now legally in the Dursleys’ care. His eyes had filled with tears as his fingers traced over his own name, and he had carefully tucked the document away, holding the secret of his own identity close to his heart — a reminder of a time before all of this. 

For seventeen years, Harry lived with the Dursleys, almost all of those as something even lower than a servant, making friends with the cats and owls and garden snakes of the house and nearby fields. Despite everything, he managed to develop a kind soul and a biting sense of humor, as well as a vivid imagination. He frequently chatted with the snakes, as they were good company and often fairly decent conversationalists. It was rare for him to have anyone to talk to who would answer him; the other animals never responded when he spoke, but Harry didn’t think much of it. He assumed that snakes were just friendlier creatures than owls or cats. 

There were also a few villagers near his age that Harry rather liked. There was Hermione, the daughter of the local bookseller, who would often smuggle him stories to read when she knew the Dursleys were in town and wouldn’t catch him, and there was also Ron, the youngest son of the baker. Ron always made sure to sneak Harry some extra bread when he was sent to buy the week’s groceries and to chat with him for a while about whatever the local gossip was, and Ron’s mother tutted over Harry as though he was one of her own large brood whenever she could catch him. This was rare, unfortunately, as he usually had to hurry back to the Dursleys’ to avoid being beaten or locked in his cupboard for dallying too long in town. In general, Harry didn’t get to spend much time with Ron or Hermione at all, instead doing whatever he could to avoid the more extreme punishments his uncle would dole out when he felt disrespected. Thus, animals were still his most frequent companions. 

Harry dreamed of someday leaving this place; of meeting someone fascinating and funny who would take him away on adventures; someone who could be a friend and a confidant and a sparring partner; someone who would love him with their whole soul. They were only dreams, however. Harry’s life remained the same, day after day, year after year, blurring together in a never-ending stream of daydreams and chores and exhaustion. That is, until one day, an invitation came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! So the rest of this story is well underway, but I wanted to get the prologue up to motivate myself to keep working! I'm probably about halfway through with the rest, so I'm probably going to post it all as one chapter once it's done, unless people would like me to do it in halves and post the part that's done sooner. Let me know! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thank you to [dexiha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexiha) and [wynnyfryd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnyfryd) for beta work!
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gallifrey1sburning)


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys prepare for a ball

**Draco**

“You CANNOT be serious,” the young man snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at his parents on their thrones. The two majestic blond figures watched dispassionately as their son paced in front of them, storming back and forth across the marble floor, the heels of his boots clicking with all the antagonism of a cornered wildcat. “A _ball?_ To force me to pick a wife?” He stopped in his movement to turn toward them, long, white-blond hair whipping behind him as he flung his arms out dramatically. “It may have escaped your notice, Father, but I’m not even _interested_ in women!” Under his breath, he continued to mutter. “What a fucking heinous way to celebrate one’s birthday.”

“Language, Draco,” his mother, Queen Narcissa, admonished, while his father waived a dismissive hand.

“A husband then,” the haughty King Lucius replied, seeming completely unperturbed. “Our family are powerful wix; you can get an heir on a man with the right spells and potions. But an heir _is necessary,_ Draco.” The look he gave his son was icy. “I will not see this family’s legacy brought to an end because you are too petulant to choose a spouse from amongst the candidates we have presented to you. You are about to be eighteen years old; it is beyond time that you marry.”

Draco flopped into a velvet-seated chair, flinging one knee over a gilded armrest and allowing his head to loll backward, all sullen elegance. He was beautiful, and he knew it — tall and slim, with the palest pink skin and the finest of features, cornsilk hair framing icy silver eyes that sparkled with intensity when he wanted something. Although his parents couldn’t give less of a whit for his penchant for displaying himself to his best advantage, he couldn’t help but flaunt himself like a peacock, even in the midst of an epic snit. “The only candidates I’m aware of, once we’ve disqualified the women, are either boring or I’ve known them since childhood,” he pouted. “I’ve no interest in marrying into Blaise’s family; his mother has offed more nobility than the last several wars combined, and they were all her own husbands. And I’ll OBVIOUSLY not consider Crabbe or Goyle.”

Even King Lucius shuddered a bit at that thought, but then pursed his lips and returned to his previous point. “That is exactly why we are having a ball,” he explained tersely. “We will round up every eligible magic-using young person in our kingdom, _and_ those nearby, and you will have no excuse to put this off any longer.”

“Dear,” Queen Narcissa interjected, turning her face toward her husband, “There really aren’t quite enough wix of the right age within reasonable distance to fill our ballroom. And what with the discord in some of the other kingdoms… well, it might be _politic_ to invite non-magical youth as well.” 

Lucius grimaced, but conceded the point. “Very well. All eligible young people in the kingdom, then.”

Draco snorted, swinging his leg back and forth and draping one arm over his eyes, giving him the look of a napping angel. “You needn’t invite the women; I’ve already told you.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes, knowing that her son couldn’t see her anyway and therefore could not pout even more about her lack of sympathy. “I’m not about to host a social occasion where we discount an entire half of the nobility,” she answered with a sniff. “How utterly crass.”

Draco sighed, dropping his arm from his face and swinging around so that he was facing his parents again. “Fine, invite them all; see if I care. Man or woman, magic user or no, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m not getting married just so that you can have your precious heir. And I’m _certainly_ not marrying anyone who’s only interested in me because I’m the prince. If they don’t love me for my charms instead of my crown, they aren’t worth the bother.” He paused for a moment, thinking, and then nodded to himself as he got to his feet. “It will be a masked ball, or I won’t go. And I won’t promise to marry someone I meet there unless I genuinely think they’re worthy of it.”

“Of course, love,” Narcissa soothed him, fighting the urge to roll her eyes at her son once more, and with narrowed eyes and a curt nod, Prince Draco spun on his heel and clacked purposefully from the room.

With a sigh, Lucius leaned back in his throne and rubbed his eyes as though fighting off a headache. “Of all the insolent, entitled, dramatic children,” he lamented, “we had to raise _that_.” He waved one hand dramatically toward the exit, where his son had just disappeared. “That boy will be the death of me.”

“Yes, well,” said Narcissa, wryly, “he does take rather after his father.”

  


**Harry**

_By order of the King and Queen_

_You are cordially invited_

_To a masquerade ball_

_In honor of his Royal Highness_

_Prince Draco Lucius Abraxas Septimus Malfoy_

_On the occasion of his eighteenth birthday_

_This Saturday, the fifth of June_

_At nine o’clock in the evening_

_Every eligible young bachelor and maiden is to attend_

The invitations had been delivered at the end of May, and the town had been in chaos ever since. Everyone understood the subtext of the invitation’s wording — the Prince was to find a partner, and whoever it was would be chosen from the party guests. Harry had been the one to accept the thick parchment envelope when it arrived at the Dursley home, but his Uncle had ripped it from his hands almost immediately with a brusque “Give that here, Boy!” and he’d had to find out what it said from Hermione later that day. He’d been sent to buy milk, and had stopped into the bookshop to say hi, when he saw her holding an identical envelope, wonder in her eyes. When he returned home, he saw that Aunt Petunia had immediately gone into a frenzy of preparations, even announcing that she would deign to visit the village herself in order to commission a suit and mask for Dudley of the gaudiest, most expensive materials she could find. 

“But Muuuuum,” Dudley had whined as he was dragged to the clothier, Harry walking several steps behind the duo with his arms weighed down in hideously overwrought brocades and garish trims, “I don’t _want_ to marry the Prince. I don’t _like_ men like that.”

Petunia harrumphed. “I hardly think that matters,” she said dismissively, eyes narrowed as she looked into the various shop windows. “It’s not about _love_ , Dudders dear, it’s about _connections._ You deserve the best in life, my Duddykins, and that means royalty. I’m sure you could have as many lovers on the side as you wished, so long as you were discreet. But marrying royalty would set you up financially for life! Your father and I won’t be around forever, and we _so_ want you to be looked after when we’re gone.”

Dudley continued to whinge and complain, and Petunia kept trying to persuade him, and Harry followed them down the street, occasionally readjusting the cumbersome load in his arms. As they passed the baker’s shop, he caught his friend Ron’s gaze through the window and rolled his eyes. _Bad luck, mate!_ the other boy mouthed, and Harry grimaced at him and shrugged. 

“Boy!” came Petunia’s irritated voice from ahead of him, “What are you doing, dawdling about? Get up here at once, I need those fabrics to show to the mask maker!”

Harry sighed and picked up his pace. The truth was, he would love to be picking out an outfit and mask for himself so that he could attend the ball. He had never had clothes that weren’t hand-me-downs from Dudley, and he’d obviously never been to a castle before. He didn’t know how to dance, of course, and he had no idea how to interact with royalty, but he thought that even just the chance to hover to the side and observe all of the splendor would be worth the effort. Getting the invitation was the most exciting thing that he could remember happening in all his years; how much more exciting would it be to actually attend?

By the time they had reached the mask maker’s shop (usually a hatter’s, but temporarily doing a brisk trade in costume accessories for the ball), he had gathered his courage to broach the subject. After all, the invitation _had_ technically included him, too, and what was the worst she could do? “Er, Aunt Petunia,” he asked hesitantly as she waited impatiently at the end of a rather long line for her turn to talk to the shop’s owner.

“What is it?” she snapped, not bothering to look at him.

“Well, the thing is…” he started, and then paused, wondering how to phrase it. “I was just wondering, if, er, maybeIcouldgototheballtoo?” The words came out in a tangle, and Petunia glanced at him with disdain. 

“Speak properly,” she chastised him sharply.

“I want to go to the ball,” he rushed out before he could stop himself.

Dudley, overhearing, laughed cruelly. “The ball? You?” he looked at Harry’s unkempt form, his clothes too big and several years out of style, his hair permanently disheveled. “What would a prince want with _you_? Freak.” Petunia gave her son a fond smile at his tormenting, but Harry pressed on.

“It’s just, the invitation did say _all_ eligible bachelors. And well, I’m not married, right? So I’m supposed to go too, really, according to… you know, the king and queen…” he trailed off, afraid to look directly at his Aunt in case the scorn in her gaze killed him on the spot.

A few other people in the line seemed to be listening curiously to the conversation, and Petunia harrumphed a bit but seemed unwilling to outright refuse to follow royal orders in front of her neighbors. “Very well,” she bit out, “I _suppose_ you can go. _If_ you get all of your chores done on time, and _if_ you can find yourself something suitable to wear. We certainly can’t afford to buy you anything, not on top of all it already costs us to feed and house you.” 

“Thank you! Really, thank you so much, I promise I’ll get everything done,” Harry answered, relieved and elated at the response. He didn’t think much of the “costs” the Dursleys incurred by giving him cupboard space and stale food scraps that weren’t quite enough to keep from always being hungry, but he wisely held his tongue in the face of her almost-capitulation. Dudley, however, did not. 

“But I don’t _want_ him to go!” the boy complained loudly, forgetting his prior arguments that he didn’t want to go himself. “He always spoils everything!”

Petunia shushed him loudly, before whispering to him just loudly enough to be overheard by Harry, but no one else, “I said _if_ , Diddykins. He’ll never find an outfit in time.”

Dudley let out a put-upon sigh. “Well. That’s alright then,” he said, but his voice still hinted at a heavy pout and a potential tantrum-to-come if he didn’t get his way in the end. Harry’s hopes dropped immediately, but he determined that he _would_ manage to put an outfit together, whatever his aunt said. Just this one night, he wanted to see something new. He would do anything he had to, if only he could have this one night of freedom, where he could be someone else.

\---------

In the week leading up to the ball, Harry worked harder than he ever had. He cooked, cleaned, and gardened as always, but in between tasks, he poured all of his efforts into putting together an outfit that might pass muster to get him into a ball, at least under very light scrutiny in a very dim room. As he looked over what he had gathered by the Friday before the ball, he had to admit that he’d be relying heavily on the hope that he could blend into a crowd and pass by unnoticed.

The thing with being chronically underfed, Harry realized, was that even the clothes that Dudley had grown out of several years ago were rather too wide for him. He liked to think that he had some decent muscle definition from the manual labor he did every day, but when it came down to it, he had to admit that he was... well… rather skinny. Still, needs must, and Harry wasn’t inexperienced with sewing, having been in charge of darning and hemming and repairing the clothes of his relatives for over a decade now. He’d managed to alter a few pieces enough that they at least mostly fit him, even if the breeches were a bit too short and the shirt a bit too wide in the shoulder. The mask had been the hardest part, but with great patience and determination, Harry had spent several nights working into the wee hours of the morning by candlelight, using fallen feathers that he had collected from the chickens the Dursley’s kept and his friends the owls, he had fashioned himself a half mask that he was rather proud of. Carefully, he had tucked it away in his cupboard, ready for the big night.

When June fifth finally arrived, the house was in chaos as Harry was forced to help his aunt, uncle, and cousin prepare themselves for the ball. Hauling water for baths, heating irons to press clothes, and generally being run ragged on useless errands on top of all his normal chores, Harry barely had time to think about his own attendance at the ball. It was approaching eight o’clock when he finally had a moment to take a fast, cold bath and get himself dressed. When he went to retrieve his mask from its hiding place, however, it was nowhere to be found.

Frantically, Harry tore through the small space, sure that the mask must have just fallen behind something. However, there were very few places it could possibly be, and Harry was soon forced to accept that it was gone. Reluctantly, he approached his aunt.

“Erm, Aunt Petunia?” he asked hesitantly, approaching her at her dressing table where she was putting the final touches on her garish makeup, “You haven’t happened to see my mask, have you?”

“Mask?” she asked tartly, pursing her lips at him in the mirror, “We didn’t buy you a mask, don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I know, but, you said I could come if I had a proper outfit, so I made one. It was a bird, a brown and white bird. Did you see it?”

“You mean that ratty pile of chicken feathers Dudley found in the cupboard?” She scowled at him. “I threw that diseased thing onto the fire. Disgusting.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “You burned it?” he whispered, shocked. “You _burned_ my mask?”

“ _Your_ mask? Nothing here belongs to you, you ungrateful brat,” Petunia returned dismissively. “Be glad I didn’t beat you for stealing those feathers and bringing that nasty thing into the house.” 

As the shock began to fade, Harry could feel rage boiling under his skin and knew that his face must be flushing as he clenched his fists in helpless anger. He had spent hours on that mask, hidden it away carefully, and his horrible cousin had dug around in the one place Harry considered his own and found it. Harry was positive that Dudley had known exactly what it was, as had Petunia — they’d been clear that they didn’t want him at the ball, and what better way to ensure he couldn’t attend than to ruin his costume? 

A bottle of _eau de toilette_ on Aunt Petunia’s dressing table shattered loudly, spewing shards of glass and splatters of perfume and flooding the room with a sickly, overpowering scent of lilacs. Harry and Petunia were both doused liberally with the liquid, though miraculously neither of them were hit by any of the flying glass.

Petunia let out a surprised shriek. The combination of sounds and smell startled Harry, effectively draining his rage, and Petunia whipped around to glare at him. “This is your fault, boy,” she snapped, a slight shake to her voice. “You distracted me and… and I knocked over my perfume. Clean this mess up and get out of my sight.” Pulling her soaked dressing gown tight around herself, Petunia swept from the room, leaving Harry with the detritus of the odd incident. He looked down at his carefully constructed outfit, which now reeked of rotting flowers, and felt his eyes begin to fill. Even with a mask, he wouldn’t have been able to go to the ball now. He didn’t have anything else to put on, and his shirt was unwearable. 

When the Dursleys departed shortly afterward, climbing into their hired coach in their garish finery, there was no mention of Harry going with them.

  


**Draco**

“ _What_ is the point of this being a masked ball if you’re going to force me to greet everyone as they enter?” Prince Draco spit bitterly as a queue of well-dressed young people began to form outside the palace gates. “I told you I didn’t want people to know who I am. How am I supposed to find someone worthy when they’re all being disgustingly fake to gain my favor?” 

The King didn’t deign to answer. The Queen sighed and leaned over from her throne to straighten the Prince’s jacket as he slouched morosely next to her in his own ornate seat. “You’re not even in costume yet, dear,” she reassured him. “You may go and change as soon as we’ve finished greeting the gentry. After that, once we open the doors to the general populace, you’re free to retreat and make yourself unrecognizable.”

Draco sighed dramatically, keen to make his displeasure extremely evident to his parents, but straightened his back. “ _Fine,”_ he acceded with ill grace. He’d known this was the plan, of course, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to argue it until the very end. If he gave in too easily, they’d think they could get anything from him — including, he was sure, a swift wedding. He looked down at his current outfit; it was a regal but simple ensemble of dark green and soft, dove grey. His hair was tied back in a tight plait, showing off his striking jawline, and was topped by a thin gold circlet. He looked like his father, he reflected with distaste, glancing over at the older man in his nearly identical but more highly decorated apparel, his heavy crown perched atop his stern head, and Draco was glad that he would be free to go put on something more to his own liking soon.

The reception line was every bit as tedious as Draco had expected it to be. Family after family glided down the long red carpet as their names were announced, bowing or curtseying in front of the royal family before being ushered on toward the rest of the crowd in the slowly filling ballroom. Draco nodded coldly at each person presented, trying to repress his shudders at the many simpering smiles sent his way by hopeful young ladies and inwardly rolling his eyes at the combination of forced smiles and cocky grins sent at him by the young men of the bunch. He warmed slightly as he greeted his friends, but raised a pointed eyebrow when Blaise Zabini dared to wink cheekily at him. “Don’t even think about it, Zabini,” he warned. “I’m not interested.”

The attractive young man before them — who hadn’t bothered to try to hide his identity, instead opting for a black lace half mask that accentuated his fine features — trailed a pointed gaze down Draco’s body before meeting his eyes. “Pity,” he smirked. Lowering his voice, he went on so that only Draco could hear. “Well, if you get bored with whatever well-bred broodmare they saddle you with, you know where to find me. I’m not above a little fun on the side.”

Draco snorted. “Get out of here,” he chided, though his voice was fond, and with one more smirking grin, Blaise sauntered away. Draco watched him go to join the rest of the partygoers before turning to his parents. “That was the end of them,” he announced. “May I please go get ready now?”

King Lucius waved a dismissive hand at him. “Go on, then. But don’t think for one second I won’t know if you don’t return.” He gave his son a pointed glare, and Draco sighed again.

“Yes, father,” he answered, only slightly petulantly, before retreating speedily to his chambers to change before either of his parents could change their minds.

  


**Harry**

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon as Harry slumped dejectedly on the stone back stairs of the Dursley cottage, still listening for the now-nonexistent echo of the retreating carriage. He had stripped off his perfume-soaked shirt and replaced it with one of his usual worn, oversized tunics, unable to stand the noxious scent, but had otherwise allowed himself to slip into a brooding stillness. All of the extra work he had put in, above and beyond the ridiculous efforts his relatives always demanded of him, and still he was here, alone. 

Staring down at the work-roughened hands clasped on his knees, Harry dreamed sadly of what it must be like to be in the Dursley’s carriage, approaching the glittering palace. It would be beautiful, he was sure. He’d never been too near the palace himself, of course, but he could see it in the distance when he was in town and could imagine how otherworldly it must look right now, banners flying proudly from its many turrets, lights at every window to welcome the bevy of finely costumed guests. With a sigh, he tipped his head back against the cool stone side of the house, closing his eyes as he allowed his mind to wander up the imagined path to the ball. 

“ _Ahem.”_

The soft clearing of a throat directly next to him caused Harry’s eyes to snap open, and he turned swiftly to the strange man that had somehow appeared, silently, sitting on the steps to his left. 

“What that fuck?” The startled words slipped from Harry’s mouth before he could catch himself. With wide eyes, he took in the man, whose waves of dark hair brushed his shoulders, and whose deep-necked black tunic revealed a series of arcane tattoos across his pale chest. The man grinned, and his silvery eyes twinkled with a mischief that felt both thrilling and dangerous. “Erm, sorry,” Harry stuttered, “that was rude of me. You surprised me, is all. I didn’t hear you come up. Can I help you with something?”

The man’s grin widened. “I rather think it’s the other way around, actually, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes went round behind his circular lenses. “How do you know my name?” he asked cautiously. 

“I’ve known you your whole life, Harry Potter,” the man answered mysteriously, mouth still upturned.

“I’ve never seen you before,” Harry disagreed. 

“Hmm. You wouldn’t have, I suppose. Not for a long time now. But I’ve seen you. Back when you were very young, that is.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t reply.

“I was a friend of your father’s, you see,” the man went on, and if Harry hadn’t already been enthralled, his attention would surely have been caught now.

“Who are you?” he asked. “And what do you want?”

“My name is Sirius Black,” the man replied calmly, “and as I said before, I’d like to help. I’m your… ah… well, I suppose the correct term is ‘fairy godfather.’” Sirius scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, breaking eye contact with Harry for the first time. “Stupid title, but it gets the point across. I’m supposed to have been looking out for you, after your parents died, but I got caught up in a spot of trouble and wasn’t able to be here. I’m sorry for that.”

“Wait… I was supposed to live with you?” Harry could feel his whole world turning upside down. “I wasn’t supposed to be stuck here?”

Black gave a noncommittal shrug. “Not exactly? It’s complicated. I can’t stay. But I’m here now, for the time being anyway, and I’d like to at least do one good thing for you before I have to go.”

“What good thing?”

Sirius’s grin returned. “Get you to that ball, of course.”

Harry snorted, unable to hold back his disbelief. “Right, the ball. With no clothes, no mask, and no carriage. That should go well.”

“I did say _fairy godfather,_ didn’t I?” Black asked, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think that entails, if not magic?”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Really? You’ve got magic? I’ve never met a magic user before! I’ve always wanted to, but there aren’t any in the village that I know of.”

Sirius gave Harry a sideways glance and let out an ambiguous “Hmmm,” before pulling what appeared to be a wooden stick from mid air. Or possibly from his sleeve; Harry couldn’t honestly say for sure. 

“Is that a magic wand?” Harry asked, unable to hide his wonder.

Sirius gave an amused half smile, getting to his feet. “Indeed. Now, stand up please.” Harry obeyed immediately. “Perfect. And turn around… slowly… yes, that’s it.” Harry turned in a slow circle, his arms held away from his sides, feeling self conscious about his ragged appearance. Closing his eyes to keep his embarrassment hidden, he felt a tingle spread over his body, starting at his toes and swirling its way up his legs, over his torso, down his arms, and finally up his face and over his head. “Much better,” Sirius stated as Harry finished his rotation, sounding a bit smug. 

Opening his eyes once more, Harry looked down at himself. “Holy shit,” he breathed in wonder, taking in his changed appearance. 

The too-short trousers had disappeared, replaced with a pair of soft, dark brown, well-fitted breeches that disappeared into knee-high golden-tan leather boots. A brown velvet tailcoat, open in the front and reaching Harry’s knees in the back, was edged in gold embroidery resembling talons around his wrists and feathers along the collar and trim. The open coat revealed a waistcoat in a lighter brown and gold feathered brocade over a silky white shirt. 

“This is… Mr. Black, this is incredible,” Harry exhaled, meeting the man’s eyes. “I’ve never seen clothes so beautiful. Thank you.”

“Call me Sirius, Harry, please,” Black answered, “and don’t thank me yet, we aren’t done.” With a swish of his wand, he conjured something out of the air, catching it neatly and handing it to Harry. 

It was a gorgeous mask made of a shimmering collection of deep brown, tawny, and gold feathers, which circled the elegantly tilted eye openings before flaring outward and upward, ending in pointed peaks like ears on each side. An arc of gold that called to mind a beak without being overly prominent covered the top of the nose. The mask ended there in the center, sweeping down across the top of the cheeks but cutting away in a way that would leave Harry’s defined jawline on display. The overall image was fierce and proud, its aura reminiscent of an eagle or hawk. The mask looked like everything Harry had tried to accomplish in his own attempt, but infinitely finer than anything he could have imagined. 

“Sirius…” Harry breathed, staring down at it in wonder. 

“It’s a griffin,” Sirius said softly, reaching out and stroking a finger along the soft feathers. “They were a bit of a symbol for your father’s family. I thought it would suit you.” 

Harry blinked, feeling his eyes begin to fill and trying to hold back his emotions. He’d never known anything about his father’s family; he had learned young that to ask about them was tantamount to asking to be beaten and locked in the cupboard without supper. To have this small token of the family he’d never known, this tiny hint of information, meant more to him than he could have imagined. “Thank you,” he whispered. With slightly shaking hands, he began to lift the mask to his face, only to have the moment broken as he recognized one slight hitch to his costume: his rather unavoidable spectacles. “Erm… right,” he said, his face flushing with embarrassment as he lowered the mask once more. Holding the mask in one hand, he raised the other to his face once more, pulling the lenses from his face and squinting at them in irritation. “I can’t actually… see without these?” he apologized.

“Oh right!” Sirius responded, apparently unperturbed. “James was blind as a bat as well. Completely slipped my mind. Here you go!” And before Harry could even flinch at the wand pointed into his face, or ask who James was ( _had that been his father's name?_ ), he felt a cool tingle pass over his eyes. Suddenly, he could see more clearly than he usually could even with his spectacles on. 

Blinking, Harry looked around and grinned. “Wicked.”

Sirius looked pleased. “Alright then!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands once. With a golden shiver of air, a carriage appeared before them. “Hop on in; the magic will only last until midnight, so you’d best be on your way. Wouldn’t want to miss anything because you dawdled!” 

Flustered at the sudden dismissal, Harry gazed for a moment at the elegant but horseless carriage and then looked back at Sirius, torn. 

“Don’t worry, the carriage will get you there and back just fine,” Black promised, misreading Harry’s hesitation. “Go on, now.”

Biting his lip briefly, Harry met the man’s gaze. “Will I see you again?” he asked, trying not to show his desperation for any connection to his parents (and mostly failing).

“I’ll try,” Sirius answered softly, bringing one hand up to his godson’s face, “but I can’t promise. My life is… complicated. I hope you won’t need me, either way.” Without hesitating, he pulled the younger man into a brief, tight hug — the first that Harry could ever remember receiving. “Take care of yourself, Harry Potter. Go have fun.” And with a small step back, the man faded away into the dusk. 

Harry looked at where the man had stood for a moment longer, still amazed by the magic that seemed to seep from his very being. “Thank you,” he whispered belatedly into the dark, before climbing into the carriage and securing the mask to his face. Without a word from him, the carriage began to move forward, carrying Harry Potter toward the palace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [mx_maneater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mx_maneater) and [dexiha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexiha) for their beta work! I'm posting chapters 1-2 at the same time because I'm mad with power, and the final chapter is in the works. Comments and Kudos are love! If you want to chat, come find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gallifrey1sburning) :)


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a ball takes place, and our protagonists meet.

**Draco**

Looking into the ornate full length mirror standing before him, Draco gave himself an appraising once over. He’d barely taken half an hour to change his ensemble, and he was quite pleased with the results, especially given the extremely short (by his standards, anyway) time frame. 

He’d undone the tight plait of his hair, using just a touch of magic to relax the waves the braid had left so that his white-blond hair fell in a pristine curtain just past his shoulders. His outfit — an impeccably tailored waistcoat and breeches worn over a beautifully silky shirt and topped with a flowing cloak — was done all in shades of silver and white. The cloak was adorned with thin opaline disks, layered over one another until they resembled a shimmering swath of scales. His boots stood out from the rest of the garments, deepest of jet blacks and polished to a high sheen. His mask, which he had worked on endlessly with the palace _couturier_ over the past week (the man had been filched from the French royal family through a combination of flirtation and bribery the summer before), fitted his angular face perfectly and was unmistakably the visage of a proud, cunning dragon. _Maybe not my most subtle idea ever_ , Draco mused as he eyed his reflection approvingly, _but it certainly suits me._

With one final look, the prince took a deep breath and headed out into the now-crowded ballroom. The room, which was always rather eye-catching, looked spectacular tonight. The high, arched ceilings, adorned with frescos of constellations across a starry sky, had been polished until the stars looked almost real in their brightness. Several huge, spangled chandeliers were fully lit, adding even more of a fantastical atmosphere to the space. Wide, white marble staircases led up to a mezzanine, where some of the older guests hovered, leaning along the matching marble balustrade, watching the party spread out below them. On the main level, seas of young people in elegant suits and dresses and spectacular masks wove in and out of each other, sipping champagne, flirting, and laughing. In the center of the floor, some of the guests had paired off and were dancing to the sweet strains of music echoing through the room from an artfully hidden orchestra. 

Already, some people had removed their masks so as to more easily find their friends and enjoy the party together. Most, however, left them firmly in place, for which Draco was grateful. He had no intention of removing his mask tonight. He knew that the color of his hair was fairly distinctive, but he had noted other pale blond heads moving through the crowd and thought that he shouldn’t be _too_ easy to identify, although he assumed that at least some people would recognize him. His friends, of course, wouldn’t be fooled for a moment, but he planned to avoid them as much as possible as he sought to interact with some of the more intriguing guests that he was not familiar with.

And speaking of intriguing, Draco had completed only a cursory glance over the throng of partygoers when his gaze was drawn to the entryway, where a late arrival was now descending the staircase. The prince stopped as if frozen as the young man made his way downward, visibly nervous. He was tall and slim, dressed all in shades of brown and gold, with an appealingly messy mop of black curls crowning a face mostly hidden by an understatedly beautiful feathered mask. He didn’t know why, but something about the man called to Draco, and he found he couldn’t look away. 

Seeming to sense that he was being observed, the man on the stairs looked up and caught the prince’s eyes. Draco drew in a sharp breath as he took in a gaze of startling green. _Magical, then,_ he thought absently as he held eye contact with the other man for a moment longer than was probably polite. _But I’m sure I’ve never seen him before._

Just then, Draco felt a solid body knock into him from behind, and turned to glare at the large, mustachioed man who had just run into him.

“Watch where you’re going!” the man barked, glaring down at Draco through a garish lacquered mask. The prince opened his mouth to huff out an affronted “I _beg_ your pardon?” but the older man had already shuffled away, grumbling under his breath about poncy aristocrats. Shaking his head a bit to dispel the irritating confrontation, Draco turned back to the staircase, but the striking young man was already gone.

  


**Harry**

When Harry had seen his Uncle Vernon run into the beautiful blond man he’d been ogling for a slightly embarrassing amount of time, he had quickly looked away and finished his descent before the older man could look up and recognize him. He knew he probably didn’t look much like himself right now, but he didn’t dare take the chance. He couldn’t fathom the amount of trouble he would be in if he was caught, especially with no plausible explanation for his clothes. He somehow didn’t think that “my fairy godfather made them for me with magic” would get him very far. 

Soon, he was enveloped in the swirling, sparkling crowd. There were more people than he’d ever seen in one place, clad in every color of the rainbow, and masked as every creature of the sky, land, or sea. Liveried servants in simple domino masks circulated the room with trays full of champagne flutes, and Harry carefully claimed one from a young man who bowed solicitously to him before moving on. 

Harry took a small sip from the delicate glass to lessen his chances of tipping it down his own front before attempting to move forward through the crowd. He’d never had champagne before — or alcohol of any kind, when it came down to it — and he savored its sweetness as the bubbles tickled his tongue. Weaving his way nimbly through the mass of laughing, dancing people, he was thankful that his time with the Dursleys had made him adept at ducking unobtrusively out of other people’s way. Soon, he made his way to a stretch of elegantly papered wall where he could lean back and observe the ball, taking in every detail to file them away for later perusal when he was once again tucked away in his cramped cupboard bedroom. 

Watching the intricate social niceties play out in front of him, Harry slowly sipped his drink and marveled at how everyone seemed to know exactly what to do — each careful bow over an outstretched hand, each flirtatious laugh hidden coyly behind an expensive lace fan, each fluid step on the dance floor as hands touched lightly against hands and eyes held silent conversations full of questions and promises. It was beautiful to behold, and he absorbed it with all of the hunger of a drought-ridden field. 

For the second time that evening, an unexpected voice came from Harry’s left, startling him out of his reverie. “Enjoying yourself?” asked the man in white — the one Harry hadn’t been able to look away from earlier. He was leaning casually against the wall next to Harry, arms crossed loosely over his chest, head tilted just enough to catch Harry’s gaze once more. 

Harry felt himself flush, and was suddenly very grateful for his mask. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he answered the other man honestly.

“Really?” The man — whose hair, Harry helpfully noted to himself, was almost as pale as his blindingly white shirt — sounded intrigued. “This is your first ball?” He had turned enough for Harry to see his face more clearly, and he couldn’t help but be drawn into the sparkle of stunningly silver eyes.

“Er, yeah,” Harry answered awkwardly. “I don’t go out much, really.”

“Interesting,” the blond answered, and he sounded like he meant it. “So, what made you decide to come to this particular gathering, then? Fancied a chance at the prince?”

At that, Harry laughed. “You caught me,” he joked, “I thought a common country boy who couldn’t dance if his life depended on it and who had no idea at all about politics would be a _fantastic_ partner for a prince.”

“Hmm yes, you do sound like the ideal candidate,” the blond answered with a smirk. 

“Obviously,” Harry returned. “Which one do you suppose he is, anyway?” he asked, tearing his eyes away from the other man and looking back out at the teeming crowd. “I’ve actually no idea what he looks like; I haven’t paid much attention to the royal family, in all honesty.”

A grin spread across the mystery man’s face. He narrowed his eyes and surveyed the room thoughtfully before raising one elegant finger to point at a tall, dark skinned man with a brilliantly white grin who was wearing a lace mask that hid nothing of his handsome features. “What about him?” he asked casually.

Harry narrowed his eyes as well, appraising the man as he laughed heartily at someone’s joke before pulling a young woman to him and whispering scandalously closely into her ear, making her blush. “No, I don’t think so,” he decided. “He’s not being particularly discreet, and I feel like a prince would try to be a bit more circumspect about his interests, yeah?”

“Very well. What about him?” This time, the finger pointed at a shorter, more muscular man with a mane of fiery red hair. 

Harry laughed again. “Nah, that’s a Weasley,” he said lightly. “I’d recognize that hair anywhere; there are about a hundred of them around town.”

A calculating look from the blond, and then the hand raised again. “Him?” 

Harry followed the line of the finger, finding it pointing to none other than Dudley Dursley, in a hideous lacquer mask even gaudier than his father’s. He coughed as he inhaled a sip of champagne by accident. “ _Definitely_ not,” he choked, declining to elaborate. 

The blond grinned wickedly. “I suppose it will just have to remain a mystery then, won’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Harry answered, turning back toward the other man and returning the grin. He really was beautiful, Harry thought, taking in the eyes sparkling with humor; the smooth pale skin of the visible portions of his face and neck; the delicate lines of him as he lounged, catlike, completely at ease with himself. “What about you,” he asked belatedly, “are you enjoying yourself?”

“Mmm,” the young man hummed thoughtfully, taking a slow sip of his own champagne. “I am now,” he answered after a moment, his tone lightly flirtatious. 

Harry could feel himself flushing once more and had to turn back to watching the room in order to hide his awkwardness. He was finding the other man surprisingly easy to talk to, but he wasn’t at all experienced in romance and felt completely out of his depth. _Just talk to him like you would Ron or Hermione,_ he told himself sternly. _He’s just a person, even if he is extremely pretty._ Clearing his throat, he opted to ignore the remark and instead asked, “I take it this isn’t your first ball, then?”

“Far from,” the blond sighed. “I’ve been to more of these parties than I’d care to recollect, although I believe this may be the largest of them. It’s always the same boring people talking about the same boring things; money and magic and bloodlines and betrothals. It’s horribly dull. At least this time they invited a more varied crowd.” 

Harry perked up at the mention of magic. “Do a lot of these people have magic, then?” he asked curiously, scanning the room with renewed interest, as though he might be able to see it on them.

“Most of the nobles,” the blond confirmed.

“Do you?” Harry asked, looking back at his companion, unable to hide the slight awe in his voice. 

“Of course,” the other man answered, looking slightly confused. “Don’t you?”

“What?” Harry asked, confused. He thought he’d been pretty clear on the fact that he wasn’t of noble descent. “No, of course not.”

“Really?” The man moved closer to him, his gaze darting from one of Harry’s eyes to the other. “But your eyes… I just assumed…” he trailed off.

“What about my eyes?” Harry felt like he and his companion were having two parallel but unrelated conversations. What did his eyes have to do with anything?

“They’re very green,” the man stated, as though that should explain everything.

“Are they?” _What on earth is happening?_

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t have occasion to look at myself very much, I guess. I never thought about it.”

“Well let me assure you, they are _very_ green. Colors like that don’t often occur in people who can’t use magic. Are you certain that you can’t?”

Harry felt dazed. “Not that I’m aware of. But… I don’t know, I suppose it’s possible.” 

  


**Draco**

Draco watched as a storm of emotions flitted across the face of the man standing beside him. _He truly had no idea,_ he thought, awed. _That’s extraordinary._ The man was looking increasingly panicked, however, and so Draco decided it was time for a change of subject before he lost the attention of this fascinating, gorgeous stranger.

And he _was_ gorgeous. When Draco had finally spotted him again across the room, leaning against the wall, he’d found himself moving toward the other man without making a conscious decision. Up close, he was even more striking than Draco had realized. His thin frame was toned; his shoulders strong looking. His eyes were a truly remarkable shade of green, and his smile was bright and joyful. Draco supposed he could be hiding anything under the mask he wore, but found that he didn’t mind so much. Because aside from being attractive, the man was just... entertaining to be around. He kept up with Draco’s banter effortlessly; he was open and honest about his own life in an utterly unselfconscious way, as though not being of noble birth didn’t bother him in the least; and — perhaps best of all — he not only hadn’t come here seeking the hand of the prince, but he also had no idea who Draco was and yet seemed perfectly content to spend the evening chatting with him. 

Determined to keep the man distracted from what was apparently a rather unexpected revelation, Draco stepped away from the wall and held out a graceful hand in invitation. “Come dance with me,” he said, more a direction than a request, although not a forceful one. 

The action had the intended effect, startling the young man out of his stupor. “What?” he asked, shaking his head, and then giving a confused half smile. “Really, you want me to dance with you? You _were_ listening when I said I had no idea how, weren’t you?”

Draco grinned. “I absolutely was, and I don’t think that it matters at all. All you really need is a good lead, which I happen to be. In fact, I’ll wager you that we’ll hold our own with every other couple out there.”

Through the slanted eye opening of the black-haired man’s feathered mask, Draco could see the edge of a dark eyebrow rising skeptically. “Is that so? And what, exactly, do you propose to wager?”

“Hmmm…” the prince pondered this a moment, bringing his still-extended hand up to his chin instead. “If I win,” he finally said, his voice decisive, “I get to see you without your mask on.”

He was sure he didn’t imagine the man’s other eyebrow shooting up to meet the first. “You want to know what I look like that badly? What, do you think I might be someone you know? I can pretty much promise you that I’m not.”

“No,” Draco corrected, feeling his grin turn slightly predatory, “I just want to see if you’re really as handsome as you seem to be.”

The man coughed in surprise but then grinned. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me,” he answered, sounding amused.

“Who says I’m not?” Draco answered with a wink.

At this, the other man laughed outright. “Myself, I guess. It doesn’t seem overly plausible, since you’re quite clearly a noble, and I most definitely am not.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to laugh. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less,” he answered truthfully. “Nobles are boring.” He smiled at the other man again, this time with warmth and sincerity. “Dance with me.” He extended his hand once more.

This time, the man took it. “Fine,” he said, “but I did warn you. And when I win this bet by making a fool of us both, I get to see _you_ with your mask off.”

Squeezing the man’s fingers lightly as he pulled him away from the wall, Draco smirked. “Now who’s flirting?” he asked playfully.

“Oh, I never claimed that I wasn’t,” the man answered cheerfully. 

Draco laughed again and pulled him on to the dance floor.

  


**Harry**

As he followed the blond out toward the dance floor, Harry couldn’t help but feel like his life was turning swiftly upside down. He’d only wanted to come to the ball to watch for a bit and then sneak away home, but now here he was, getting ready to dance with a funny, gorgeous young noble — a noble who, inexplicably, seemed to think that Harry had magic.

When they reached a clear spot on the dance floor, the blond stopped and swung Harry around until they were face to face. Keeping their hands on the one side clasped together, he claimed Harry’s other hand and moved it to his own shoulder before moving his own hand to rest on Harry’s waist. Harry couldn’t help but shiver slightly at the contact. He wasn’t very used to being close to people, and this casual touch felt, in some ways, unbearably intimate. Looking up, he met the other man’s gaze, feeling awkward. “Now what?” he asked.

“Now,” the man answered, “we dance. This is a waltz, so it’s fairly simple; it’s just a three count step. One-two-three, one-two-three. I’ll lead with the hand holding yours, and you just follow along where I go. Ready?”

Biting his lip nervously (and noting as the blond quickly glanced down at it and then away again), Harry nodded. “Alright, let’s do this. But if you trip over me and we both go down, I won’t be at all sorry for your embarrassment.”

“And what about your own embarrassment?”

Harry grinned cheekily. “What would I have to be embarrassed about? No one here knows who I am. You, however, have already admitted that you know most of the nobles here, so your reputation will be much easier to ruin.”

“It’s a good thing that we won’t be falling, then, isn’t it?” the other man smirked. 

With a laugh, Harry gave in. “Fine, fine. We’ll see who’s right in the end. Let’s do this.”

Without further hesitation, the man straightened his back, firmed his hold on Harry’s hand, and began to lead them in a gentle, flowing circle around the floor. For the first loop around, Harry watched his feet carefully, trying his best not to trip but stuttering ominously several times. 

Finally, the other man sighed in exasperation and released Harry’s waist to place two long fingers under his chin, tipping his face up until they were making eye contact once more. “How do you expect to get comfortable with dancing like that? Honestly. Keep your eyes on mine, and just _feel_ the movement. Trust me to guide you.”

Releasing a deep breath, Harry nodded, and the fingers retreated, the hand returning to his waist. Much to his chagrin, the other man turned out to be correct: when he wasn’t staring at his own feet, waiting for them to inevitably trip over themselves, it was much easier to follow the ebb and flow of the music and the gentle lead of the blond’s hands as they guided him around the room. Soon, the movement became almost instinctual, and he barely had to think about it at all. Harry laughed. “Alright, you win. This isn’t so bad,” he admitted.

The blond grinned smugly. “I told you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get too cocky, I could still trip us up any second now and leave you sprawled on the floor while I run away in shame.”

“You wouldn’t,” the blond asserted, narrowing his eyes.

“How do you know?” Harry returned teasingly.

“Well, for one thing, because I would absolutely pull you down with me,” the man answered matter-of-factly. “If I’m to be humiliated, I at least need a scapegoat to blame it on.”

Harry let out a bark of laughter. “Duly noted,” he said with a smile. The pair danced in comfortable silence for a while, gliding around the dance floor amidst the other pairs, occasionally grinning and attempting to hold back laughter, though neither was entirely sure why. As they gazed into each other’s eyes, green into shining silver, Harry was reminded of their earlier conversation. He cleared his throat, breaking the quiet spell they’d been basking in, and asked “How would I know if I can do magic?”

The blond eyed him thoughtfully. “Well, if you haven’t been trained, you wouldn’t have done anything intentionally. However, it would be likely that strange things happened around you now and again — things that couldn’t easily be explained away. Flowers blooming suddenly; doors being unlocked when you wanted to get through them even though you’re sure they were locked before; those kinds of things. Usually it’s tied to a strong emotion, like excitement or anger or fear. Accidental magic, we call it.”

Harry thought back on his life, trying to think of anything that might have had a hint of magic to it. There had been occasions, from time to time, when his aunt or uncle had seemed angry at and a bit frightened of Harry when slightly strange things happened around the house. Things like some of his chores being completed much faster than seemed possible without him really remembering doing them, or the walls of the house shaking when Uncle Vernon had given him a particularly harsh or unfair punishment, or — and here he had to take a deep breath — the way Petunia’s perfume bottle had shattered when he’d been boiling with rage about his mask just hours ago. She’d claimed she’d knocked it over, but Harry was fairly sure he hadn’t seen her move.

The look on his face must have given away some of what was going through his head, because the blond looked at him understandingly. “Familiar?”

“A bit, maybe,” Harry admitted. “I uh… suspect I may have exploded a bottle recently when I got angry. It didn’t really make sense for it to break just then.”

“Yes, that’s a fairly typical one,” the blond agreed with a smile. “One of my earliest accidental magic incidents involved my managing to shatter the glass in every one of the chandeliers in he-… ah, in my family’s ballroom when I was throwing a rather epic tantrum.” Harry noted with amusement that rather than seeming embarrassed, the man looked rather proud of himself.

“Oh really?” he asked. “And what brought on a tantrum that caused that level of destruction? I assume it was completely warranted?”

“Of course!” the blond responded, faux indignation in his voice. “I’d found a snake in the garden, and they wouldn’t let me keep it as a pet. It was a completely unjust decision, and I stand by my response.”

“Ah, well, in the face of that sort of horrible mistreatment, I can completely understand,” Harry answered sardonically, rolling his eyes. “What did the snake have to say about not being allowed to stay in what I assume would have been very luxurious snakey accommodations?”

The other man smirked. “Well, as he… or she, I suppose, I’m not certain how one checks, come to think of it… let’s go with ‘they.’ _They_ didn’t have much to say on the matter at all, seeing as they were a snake, but I assume they were perfectly content to return to the gardens. I, on the other hand, pouted for several weeks, I believe, before moving on to other childhood obsessions.”

Harry was slightly taken aback. “What, you don’t speak with the snakes in your garden? Why on earth not? They’re so interesting!”

Their graceful swirl around the dance floor came to a sudden halt as silver eyes assessed green. Finally, the man said, sounding a bit faint, “You aren’t having me on, are you?”

“What? No, why would you think that?” Harry responded, perplexed. 

“You… hold on, come with me,” the blond said, his voice low. Gripping Harry’s hand in his own, he led them off the dance floor and wove through the crowd to the back of the ballroom, where a wall of open arched doorways led out into a spectacular formal garden sparkling with fairy lights. It was much more sparsely populated here, and Harry’s companion loosened his grip, leading them past the handful of meandering couples to a tall fountain, where he perched on the edge of its wide stone ledge, indicating that Harry should join him. When they were seated, turned so that they could face each other, the young man said seriously, “Speaking to snakes is an exceptionally rare magical skill. It’s almost unheard of and only occurs in the most powerful wix.”

Harry was flabbergasted. “Seriously?” he asked, his face paling. “But… I’ve always done it, ever since I was a kid. I just thought they talked to everybody. They’re friendly, you know?”

The other man shook his head. “I really don’t. And no one ever mentioned to you that conversing with snakes was unusual?”

Harry flushed. “Well, I mean, I told you, I don’t get out much. I guess it never came up.”

The blond took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “You must be immensely naturally powerful,” he stated, sounding somewhat awed and just a tad jealous. “You really need to be properly trained. Unchanneled magic of that caliber…” he shook his head. Taking Harry’s hands, he looked into his eyes again. “Would you let me help you? I know we’ve just met, but —” and here he laughed self deprecatingly, “and if you ever tell anyone I was this earnest with you I will deny it with my dying breath — I rather like you, and I’d like to see you again. But I’d also like to help connect you with the right people to teach you to harness your magic. Would you let me?” 

Harry was at a loss. “I… fuck. I don’t know.”

The other man drew back slightly, looking hurt.

“It’s not that I don’t want to see you again!” Harry rushed to reassure him. “I’ve had an amazing time with you tonight, better than I could have dreamed. But, coming to this ball… it was only supposed to be for tonight. I didn’t even mean to talk to anyone. This isn’t my world.” 

“It could be,” the blond answered, scooting a bit closer to Harry until their knees brushed against each other, sending shivers up Harry’s spine. “Magic like yours could open all sorts of doors for you. As could I.” 

Harry bit his lip, uncertain, and the other man’s gaze flicked down to it momentarily before flicking back up to his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he protested softly, sounding unsure even as he said it. “My life is… complicated. It’s not so easy to just change things.”

“You won’t know until you try,” the blond answered, leaning a bit closer, and then raising one hand to brush lightly along the exposed portion of Harry’s jawline beneath his mask. Harry shivered again. The man narrowed his eyes for a moment as if considering something important. “I’d really like to kiss you now,” he said decisively after a moment.

Harry couldn’t respond. Everything was overwhelming right now. The skin where the man’s fingers brushed was aflame. His mind was running a million miles a second, full of too much new and frightening information, interwoven with a strong current of _want_ that left everything scattered and incoherent, and he couldn’t think. Giving in to his instincts, he just nodded.

With a victorious smile, the man leaned forward and carefully, oh so carefully, pressed his lips to Harry’s. They were soft and gentle and _oh_ , Harry had never felt anything quite like this before. They drew apart slightly, and then the man moved in again, parting his lips this time so that he could take Harry’s bottom lip between his. Harry let out a quiet sigh and allowed one of his hands to return to the man’s shoulder, just where it had been as they danced. And this felt like dancing, too, in a way — it was new, and nerve wracking, but also thrilling and breathless and everything Harry hadn’t thought to want before now. After a few moments — and far too soon, in Harry’s opinion — the man pulled back. “Will you let me help you?” he asked again.

Harry laughed joyfully. “That’s cheating!” he accused, but he found he wasn’t at all upset by the trickery.

The blond just grinned wickedly. “Not cheating, just… persuasion,” he returned. “Will you?”

There was silence as the two men looked at each other. Then, Harry sighed. “Yes,” he said. “But I need you to know it’s not going to be easy. Like I said, my life is…” he shrugged and looked down at his lap. 

Once again, the blond used his first two fingers to raise Harry’s chin, forcing eye contact. “I don’t care,” he stated. “I’m very experienced in getting what I want. Whoever you think will be a problem, I promise you, they have no idea what I’m like when I’m determined.” Harry smiled at that, imagining this fierce young man confronting the Dursleys and taking him away. He doubted it would actually happen, whatever the man thought, but it was a pleasant dream.

The blond’s fingers trailed along Harry’s jaw once more, before slipping under the edge of his mask. “Now,” he said, his voice low, “I believe you have terms of a bet to fulfill.”

Harry flinched. He’d forgotten the bet entirely, but he had definitely lost. He wasn’t _exactly_ uncomfortable with this fascinating man seeing his face, it just felt vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been quite prepared for. The mask had allowed him a level of self-assurance he wouldn’t have otherwise had; it had let him be just another guest instead of “Boy,” the unwanted orphan servant who lived in a cupboard. It had let him be _Harry_ , and he was loathe to let that go. However, a bet had been made, and there was no real reason for him to remain hidden. He took a deep breath and then nodded. “Right. Let me just…” As he reached behind his head to loosen the ties, however, the two were approached by the tall, handsome, dark-skinned man that Harry’s companion had pointed out earlier as a potential candidate for being the prince.

  


**Draco**

“Ah, there you are, _Your Highness_!” Blaise said pointedly, striding up to the fountain. “I was sent by your parents —you know, the king and queen? — to find you. They seem to think you might have decided to skive off your royal duties. But it’s nearly midnight, so they need you to come join them while they lead the toast to welcome in the new day.”

Draco closed his eyes. Good god, could his timing have been any worse?

“Your _HIGHNESS_?!” came the shocked yelp from the young man across from him, who had shot to his feet, and Draco flinched, opening his eyes again to look at the man imploringly. 

“I would have told you,” he said.

The man laughed, slightly hysterically. “God, what the fuck is this night?!” he spun in a circle, looking lost, before turning back to Draco. “You’re the fucking _Prince?!_ Oh my god. Fucking _hell.”_ Then, something else seemed to occur to him. Turning to face Blaise, he asked in horror, “Wait, did you say it’s almost midnight?”

“Yes, a minute or so until the hour strikes I believe,” Blaise answered nonchalantly, looking at his perfectly manicured fingernails.

“ _SHIT!_ ” the man swore, looking even more frantic. “I have to go. Fuck, I have to go!” And with one more pained glance at Draco, he turned on his heel and dashed back into the ballroom, disappearing into the crowd before Draco could so much as stand up properly.

Irate, he turned on Blaise. “What the _fuck_ was that?” he asked, his voice tight and furious.

Blaise just raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. “What, you thought you would spend the whole ball with someone and not tell them who you are? Not a particularly auspicious way to begin a courtship, Your Highness.”

Draco glared. “Stop _calling_ me that! Fuck!” Turning back toward the ballroom, he let his eyes skim frantically across the crowd, trying to spot a head of chaotic black curls in the chaos of party guests. He thought he could see the man nearing the exit, and without another word to Blaise, he dashed after him, pushing through people with no care for anything but catching up with the man before he disappeared out the doors and out of Draco’s life. _Fuck._

When Draco reached the doors, however, the man was long gone. All that remained of him was the beautiful feathered mask, on the ground by the foot of the steps as though it had fallen off as its owner ran. Slowly, feeling dejected, Draco trailed down the steps to pick the mask up. He sat down on one of the steps with a sigh, holding the mask in both hands and stroking one of the dark brown feathers lightly. It was so soft ( _soft like the man’s lips_ Draco’s mind unhelpfully supplied). Dropping his head, Draco let out a frustrated groan. 

A moment later, he heard the clack of footsteps approaching him as they came down the steps. Shortly, a figure settled next to him. 

“You really liked him, didn’t you?” Blaise asked, sounding contrite.

“Yes, I really did,” Draco sighed. He laughed bitterly at himself. “God, I didn’t even get his name. I’m never going to see him again.” Letting the mask drop to his lap, he removed his own, setting it on top of the other before running his hands through his hair in frustration. “I can’t believe I talked to him for hours and I never asked his name. I’m such an idiot.” Blaise remained silent, and Draco turned his head to glare. “By all means, don’t rush to contradict me.”

Blaise shrugged. “Well, you are a bit of an idiot,” he said unconcernedly. As Draco continued to glare, he waved a hand at him. “ _But_ that doesn’t mean I’m not going to help you find him,” he went on, and Draco felt himself relax, just slightly.

“How?” he asked.

“You could use the mask,” Blaise suggested, “Put out an announcement that whoever lost their mask at the ball will be the prince’s groom and then see who comes forward.”

Draco snorted. “That’s an awful idea,” he said, rejecting the suggestion outright. “First of all, there’s no guarantee he would see an announcement. Second of all, I’d have to deal with hoards of young people who think they have a shot at me if they claim the mask, because people are idiots and probably assume I won’t recognize someone I spent an entire evening with, just because they had a mask on. And third and most importantly, I don’t want to PROPOSE, are you completely mental? Who marries someone they’ve only known for a night?!”

Blaise raised an eyebrow at him. “Royalty, generally.”

“Oh shut up,” Draco sighed.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Fine, then we’ll have to come up with another way. What do you know about him?”

Draco narrowed his eyes as he thought back through their meandering conversations over the course of the evening. “Well, he’s a commoner, I know that for a fact. He said as much, and even if I’d thought he was lying, I would have been convinced by his inability to dance and his lack of understanding of magic.”

“It looked like he was dancing fairly well from where I was standing,” Blaise noted.

“Yes well, I’m an excellent lead,” Draco sighed. “Trust me, he had no clue what he was doing.”

“Fine,” Blaise conceded. “He’s a commoner. Your parents will be _thrilled_ , I’m sure. What else?”

“I’ll slay that monster when I get to it,” Draco said. “It’s hardly relevant if I can’t even locate him. Let’s see… he mentioned a family that lives in the town just at the bottom of the hill, and it sounded as though he was quite familiar with them. So he probably lives in the town, or quite near it. He said he doesn’t get out much, but he didn’t seem particularly shy, so he must be rather busy… some sort of profession that requires long hours. Baking, perhaps? Or… I don’t know, farming?”

Blaise nodded. “Okay, so a commoner in or near Little Whinging, who works long hours.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “Little Whinging? Is that really what it’s called?”

“Unfortunately,” Blaise smirked.

“I might have to ask my parents if I can rename it,” the prince mused. Then he snapped back to the subject at hand. “Okay. So, he’s a tall, slim young man with green eyes and messy black hair who lives or works in Little Whinging. And despite not having an active social life, he knows people in the town. So my best plan of action is just to go there and start asking around, wouldn’t you say?”

“ _You_ are going to go wander amongst the commoners, asking around after a boy?” Blaise asked, sounding doubtful.

“If I have to,” Draco answered stubbornly.

Blaise looked over at his friend. “You really _do_ like him,” he said in wonder. Then he shook his head, slapping his hands on his thighs and pushing himself up. “Well. You won’t be able to go looking for him if your parents murder you for missing the toast. Get your arse back inside before we’re both in trouble for your lack of decorum.”

Draco sighed and rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. He was going to be asking some hefty favors of his parents in the near future, if he had his way, so it would be in his best interests to keep the king and queen happy until then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to [mx_maneater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mx_maneater) and [dexiha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexiha) for their beta work! Comments and Kudos are love! If you want to chat, come find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gallifrey1sburning) :) Hopefully I'll wrap this story up this week!


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco searches for his mysterious companion and Harry is done with the Dursleys' shit.

**Harry**

Harry was less than halfway back to the Dursley’s cottage when his carriage disappeared from existence with a quiet _pop_ , depositing him unceremoniously on his rear in the middle of the dusty road, where he landed with a surprised “oof!” He attempted to look down at himself, but his vision had gone blurry. He could, however, make out the drab colors of his usual clothes. _Well, that’s that, then,_ he thought sadly. Midnight had passed, and with it, the magic Sirius had bestowed upon him.

With a dejected sigh, Harry allowed himself to flop backward onto the road, causing a small cloud of dust to rise up around him. He looked up toward the sky, unable to see the stars now that the vision charm had worn off, but staring up at them nonetheless. He couldn’t even begin to process everything that had happened tonight. In one evening, his entire small world had been turned upside down. He had discovered that he had a fairy godfather and heretofore unrealized magical powers of his own. He had attended a ball. He had danced for the first time, been kissed for the first time, felt drawn to someone for the first time in a way that he had never before experienced. And then that person had turned out to be the fucking prince. “Christ,” Harry muttered. Then with a sigh, he heaved himself upright. He had a long walk home, and he had to make sure he got there before the Dursleys. 

As he trudged along the path home, he tried to sort tonight’s revelations into two groups: those which he should try to forget, and those that he should give more thought to.

The prince, he decided, he needed to… well, not forget, exactly. Tonight had been like a beautiful dream. But it would be best to file it away into that same small corner of his mind where other dreams were held, pretty things to take out and look at from time to time, but never to mistake for reality. There was no future for him with a prince; he wasn’t so delusional as to think that the man could possibly have any interest in him if he saw him as he truly was, instead of dressed up in magic and make believe. Even if he wanted to try to contact the royal scion, how would he? He couldn’t just send a letter. “Hi, I’m the stranger you kissed at the ball! I’m actually basically an indentured servant, and I have no money and nothing to offer you, but I’d love to see you again!” He let out a dejected laugh even thinking about it. No, he was better off forgetting his brief glimpse of romance, treating it like a story he’d once heard rather than a bittersweet look at a life he could never truly have.

His fairy godfather — and wasn’t that still one of the strangest things he’d ever heard! — was another thing to forget, at least for now. The man had been clear that he could not stay, and was unlikely to be in touch. If he should reappear at some point, well, Harry would deal with that if and when it happened. He was desperate to ask the man about his father, to make any small connection with the family he had never truly known, but there was nothing he could do about it for now.

His magic, though… the more he thought about it, the more anger began to boil up inside of him. The Dursleys must know. They must have known all along. The prince had seemed surprised that he wasn’t aware of what his eyes looked like or what they meant. It seemed like the correlation between eye color and magic was well known to people who, well, weren’t Harry. And if the strange things that sometimes happened around him really were magical accidents, then his aunt and uncle had been pretending that they weren’t for years in order to keep the knowledge of his potential from him. 

Harry felt his mouth thin into a grim line as he neared the cottage. No, this was _not_ something to forget. This was something to confront. He’d put up with the Dursleys’ abuse for long enough; this was one push too far. He was going to confront them, and then — the thought began to take form in his head, something he’d never dared to think of as a real possibility before — then he was going to leave. He was almost eighteen; he could make it on his own. He didn’t know where he would go, but he knew how to cook and clean and garden and sew; he was sure he could find some sort of employment. Maybe the Weasley family would allow him to stay with them for a few nights until he could sort it out. Mrs. Weasley always seemed to want to take care of him. 

When Harry reached the cottage, his mind was made up. He changed out of his dusty clothes to hide his evening’s adventure and then began to pack his meagre belongings into an empty flour sack. He didn’t have much, just a few changes of clothes, so it didn’t take long. Then he settled at the table in the kitchen to wait.

\---------

The fire had died down by the time the Dursleys returned home, so they didn’t see Harry as they walked through the door, panting and fluttering and complaining about the evening — the discomfort of their fine clothes and shoes, the rudeness of the prince to not unveil himself to his guests, the crowded ballroom, and so on. Harry poked at the fire to awaken it again, startling them with his presence.

“What are you doing awake? Go to your cupboard, you’ve chores to do in the morning,” Petunia glowered at him. 

Harry glowered right back. His anger had only grown in the time that he’d waited for them as he mentally went over the myriad ways he’d been mistreated by his aunt and uncle in his almost seventeen years with them. This was only the final straw, when it came down to it; he should have run a long time ago. “I’ve got magic,” he stated, his voice cold, “and you knew. Didn’t you?” 

The reactions of the three Dursleys were immediate. Dudley went pale, and Vernon turned a vivid shade of purple, while Petunia’s eyes flashed. “Now see here, boy,” Harry’s uncle began viciously, spittle flying from his mouth, but his wife cut him off almost immediately.

“Of course we knew,” she spoke derisively, her voice hard and bitter. “How could you not be, with eyes like yours?” 

Harry could feel rage bubbling inside him. “How could you keep something like that from me?!” he demanded, his voice rising. He was so angry that he didn’t even register the slight shaking that had overtaken the room, making the dishes clink quietly against each other as they began to vibrate on their shelves. 

Petunia glared. “Why should you know? You wouldn’t even know what to do with a gift like that. We certainly weren’t going to pay to have you trained; you’re enough of a burden already. Besides, you don’t _deserve_ it.”

“Don’t deserve it?” Harry scoffed. “Who are you to say what I deserve? I’ve slaved for you for _years_ , for _nothing._ Scraps of food, remnants of clothes, and a fucking cupboard to sleep in. How dare you tell me what I _deserve._ ” The shaking was escalating, the tremors traveling across the kitchen now so strong that they could be felt underfoot. A glass fell from one of the shelves, shattering loudly as it hit the stone floor. “Fuck you. I’m leaving.” Grabbing his small bag of possessions from the table, Harry made to head for the door.

Before he could even register his uncle’s movements, Harry felt a sharp blow across his face, leaving his left ear ringing and the side of his face burning. The shaking came to an abrupt stop, and Harry raised his hand to his stinging cheek in shock. “How dare you speak to us like that!” the man raged, nearly apoplectic. “You’re not going anywhere but your cupboard, you ungrateful…” He didn’t bother to finish his sentence before grabbing Harry tightly by the arm and dragging him toward the cramped closet. 

Harry tried to fight, but his uncle was at least twice his size, and soon he was being shoved bodily into the small space, sprawling across the floor as the door slammed behind him. The size of the cupboard was such that he could no longer stand straight inside of it, which left him to crouch awkwardly once he’d scrambled to his feet. He could hear the bolt being thrown even as he stood, and he pounded frantically on the door, uncaring of the splinters digging into his fists.

“You can’t keep me in here!” he yelled desperately, knowing very well that they could and would. 

“You’ll stay in there until you learn your place,” he heard his uncle growl from outside the door. “A few days without food ought to teach you some respect.” 

Harry kicked the door as hard as he could before turning to slump against it, sliding to the ground. He wrapped his arms around his knees and dropped his head, muffling his mouth against his forearm as he screamed in frustration. He should have just left without confronting them, he thought, kicking himself internally. He might have magic, but he sure as hell didn’t know how to use it. Why had he thought that he’d be able to get away on his own? With a despondent sigh, he gave himself a quick once-over, assessing the damage inflicted by his uncle’s rough handling. He was a bit bruised, and he knew he would be sore in the morning, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could be. He’d certainly had worse, he thought wryly, thunking his head back against the door in defeat. He was so tired. 

Eventually, Harry roused himself enough to crawl over to his thin pallet bed, curling up on it in exhaustion. There was nothing he could do tonight. Still, despite being bone-weary, it was a long time before he fell asleep.

  


**Draco**

The morning after the ball, Draco was anxious to head out to find his mystery companion. He was jittery at breakfast, a fact that his parents did not fail to notice.

“Honestly, Draco, _what_ has gotten into you?” King Lucius asked in aggravation, setting his fork down on the long, intricately carved wooden table with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. “Try to conduct yourself with at least _some_ decorum, won’t you?”

“Oh hush, dear,” the Queen chastised her husband. “Draco, dear, has something happened?”

The Prince took a deep breath before meeting her eyes. “Actually, yes,” he stated, trying to seem calm. “I met someone last night.”

The King’s eyebrows rose, and a soft smile lit Queen Narcissa’s face. “I thought as much. I saw you disappear with that lovely young man in the griffin mask. Who was he?”

“Well,” Draco answered, his voice rueful, “I… didn’t actually catch his name?”

This time it was the Queen’s brows that rose, while the King let out an exasperated huff. “Of course you didn’t. Why would you need something so banal as the _name of the man you wish to marry?_ ”

“Well first off, Father, I never said anything about marriage,” Draco retorted, irritation evident in his voice. “I barely met the man, I just _liked_ him, and would like to get to know him better. And secondly, it wasn’t my fault! Blaise came to find me for the toast and let slip that I was the prince before I had a chance to admit as much, and the man panicked and ran off.” 

The King snorted. Queen Narcissa sighed. “Well, that’s rather the opposite reaction of that which one would hope for,” she noted dryly.

“He didn’t have time to properly digest the idea,” Draco pouted. “He liked me before that.”

“I’m sure he did, dear,” Narcissa answered placatingly. “What shall you do about it, then?”

“Well,” Draco answered haltingly, “Blaise and I did come up with a plan for how to find him. With your permission, I would like to seek him out.”

“And what is this plan?” Lucius asked skeptically.

“He mentioned several things that led us to believe he lives in the nearest town, Little Whinging,” Draco explained, trying to keep his voice even. “There were a few hints as to what kind of profession he might hold, and who some of his acquaintances might be. I’d like to go down and ask around to see if I can’t find him.”

“Little Whinging?” Draco’s father asked, sounding disgusted. “ _Profession?_ Are you telling me this boy is a _commoner?!”_

“Oh honestly, dear, don’t be such a snob,” Narcissa answered with a roll of her eyes. “We’d already ruled out most of the gentry as potential partners; who did you think he was going to choose?”

The King glared, but did not answer.

“There’s one other thing,” Draco added hesitantly. “He seems to have untrained magical talent. I’d like to invite him to stay here, and to learn from some of my tutors from childhood.”

At this, the King looked at least somewhat less than displeased for the first time since the matter was raised. “Magical talents? Are you sure?”

Narcissa rolled her eyes again, but didn’t comment. “That seems like a reasonable request,” she answered her son. “His living here would also allow you to court him properly. Which I assume is your intent?”

Draco blushed, but his voice was steady as he answered her. “Yes, Mother, it is.”

“Good. Go and find him today, then, won’t you? It would be lovely to get this all settled sooner rather than later.”

Draco grinned. “Yes, Mother.”

\---------

It was nearing noon when Draco arrived in the town, accompanied by Blaise. His friend had protested, but the prince had insisted. “This is all your fault anyway, the least you can do is tag along so that I don’t have to navigate the social niceties of the proletariat on my own.”

And so they had gone, dressed in fine but plain clothes so as to not draw too much attention. They’d travelled by carriage, but had left their purveyance (and its driver) on a quiet side street so as to avoid standing out. When they had walked to the village’s main street, however, Draco stared at the crowds of people despairingly. “My god, there are so _many_ of them!” he lamented, overwhelmed. “Where do we even start?”

“I suppose we should just wander the shops and see if anyone looks familiar?” Blaise suggested, sounding doubtful.

“I suppose so,” Draco agreed reluctantly. 

They decided to approach things systematically, starting at the beginning of the cobbled street where they currently stood and exploring each shop in order until they reached the far end, at which point they would work their way back along the other side of the road. They wandered through a flower shop, a stationer, a haberdashery, and a bookshop, all with no luck. There were a few too-long looks and a fair number of whispers as they passed — the hair of the royal family was distinctive enough that people were sure to at least suspect Draco’s identity — but no one gathered the courage to approach them. 

Soon, they came across a bakery. “Oh thank goodness,” Blaise sighed, “I’m starving.” Draco wanted to respond with irritation — how could Blaise think about food when Draco was searching for the potential love of his life?! — but “baker” _had_ been on his list of potential professions for the mysterious stranger, and so he bit his tongue and followed his friend into the shop. 

A bell chimed cheerfully as they entered, and from behind a swinging door, which was situated behind a long counter, a muffled voice called “Just a moment!” Also behind the counter were shelves upon shelves full of various loaves, rolls, and cakes, the scent of which made Draco’s mouth water. Okay, so _maybe_ food wasn’t the worst idea. After a minute or so, a frazzled-looking woman with a kerchief tied over her greying hair and flour on her face and down her apron bustled out through the door with a tray full of fresh bread, steam rising enticingly from the golden brown loaves.

“So sorry, dears,” the woman apologized with a strained but kind smile, “I’m afraid I’m a bit caught up right now, but I’ll call one of my sons to help you.” Setting the tray on a wooden rack, she pushed her way back through the door. “RONALD,” she yelled as the door swung shut behind her, “GET BACK OUT FRONT IMMEDIATELY, WE’VE CUSTOMERS!”

“Sorry Mum!” came an answering voice from further away. Blaise and Draco could hear footsteps pounding down wooden stairs, and then the door swung open again, a ginger-haired young man with a pleasant, freckled face hurrying behind the counter. He was hastily chewing something, and swallowed before he spoke, giving a friendly grin. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly, “I was just trying to sneak a bit of lunch while things were slow. It’s been barmy in here today. What can I help you with?”

Blaise smiled winningly at the redhead and began to ask about the various breads, but Draco cut him off as he took in the man’s flamingly red hair. “I’m sorry, but do you happen to be a…” he racked his brain for the family name the stranger had mentioned in conjunction with red hair the prior evening, “...Weasel?”

The redhead gave Draco an annoyed look and crossed his arms over his chest. “How original,” he scowled.

“Pardon?”

“Like I haven’t heard that a hundred times?” the man scoffed. “Weasley? Weasel? Please.”

“Now see here,” Blaise cut in, “do you know who you’re speaking to?”

Draco held up a hand again to silence his friend as the man behind the counter looked as though he was about to make a heated retort. “My apologies,” he said, trying to sound sincere despite his irritation at the stranger’s manner, “I meant no offense. I met a man last night at the ball who referenced a family with distinctive red hair. I obviously didn’t quite catch the name.”

The young man still looked somewhat vexed, but chose not to argue. “Yes, I’m a Weasley,” he said, his voice less friendly than before. “Ron Weasley. What of it?”

Draco sighed in relief. “Well, this man that I mentioned. I didn’t manage to catch his name, and I’d rather like to find him. Since he mentioned your family, I’m hoping one of you might be able to point me in his direction.”

“Why?” Ron asked, sounding suspicious.

Draco wasn’t really sure how to answer. “I’m the prince, and I think I might like to marry him, actually” seemed like a bit much. Instead, he settled for: “He dropped his mask, and I would like to return it to him.”

Ron seemed to accept the answer. “Well, I’ll see what I can do. What was he like?”

“About my height. Thin. Near me in age — probably seventeen or eighteen if I had to guess? Wry sense of humor, fascinated by everything, _beyond_ humble. Messy but oddly appealing black hair, contagious smile, and the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen...” Draco trailed off, blushing a bit, as he heard his own words. Return his mask indeed.

Ron didn’t seem to think anything of Draco’s description, however; he seemed to be thinking rather hard. “I mean, that sounds a bit like my friend Harry… Harry Potter,” he said hesitantly. “I haven’t paid much attention to his eyes, to be honest; his spectacles, you know? The rest of it fits… but he wouldn’t have been at the ball.”

“You can’t think of anyone else matching that description?” Draco asked, trying not to let his desperation show. The young man he’d met had not been wearing glasses. Although one couldn’t really with a mask, he supposed.

“Not really,” Ron answered with a shrug. “Sorry, mate.” 

“And why wouldn’t this Harry have been at the ball? All eligible young people were supposed to be in attendance. Is he betrothed or something?” 

At this, Weasley laughed. “God, no! No, it’s just… his family’s kind of shit. They don’t really let him out much.”

_I don’t really get out much_. Draco could hear the wistful words of the young man from the night before echoing in his mind. His heart started to beat faster. “Where can I find him?”

“Well, he lives with his aunt and uncle down that way,” Ron said, gesturing vaguely toward where the main street transitioned into a wide dirt road that wound off into the distance. “A mile, maybe? They’re the first cottage you come to, you can’t miss it. I wouldn’t go there if I were you, though,” he warned.

“Why not?” Draco asked, affronted.

“I wasn’t kidding about his relatives being shit, mate,” Weasley said with a grimace. “The Dursleys are seriously unpleasant people. You really don’t want to have a run in with them, and if you go there looking for Harry, you’ll just get him in trouble.”

Draco’s brow furrowed as he processed this new information. “They mistreat him?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Ron scowled. “If you think starving and beating someone counts as mistreatment, anyway.”

With a loud exhale, Draco pondered his next steps for a moment, horrified at this new information. Then, decisively, he nodded to himself.

“Thank you for your help,” he told the young man. “I promise you, I can hold my own against these Dursleys, no matter how unpleasant they might be. I _need_ to see if this Harry is the man I met last night.” Ron opened his mouth to object, but Draco stepped forward, reaching across the counter to put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll get him out of there either way,” he said softly.

At this, Ron’s heretofore stiff posture relaxed. “Promise?”

“You have my word.” Pulling his hand back, Draco turned to Blaise, who had been hovering impatiently throughout the conversation. “Come along, let’s go rescue Harry Potter.” 

“Can’t I at least buy something to eat first?” Blaise complained. 

Draco let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine, but be quick about it, won’t you? You can eat it on the way.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Blaise smirked. The redhead’s eyes widened in recognition and Draco groaned. 

“You’re a menace, Blaise Zabini,” he growled, before turning to address Weasley. “Please, don’t say anything,” he beseeched the young man. “I’ll never be allowed out without a guard again if I get mobbed.”

Ron nodded, looking slightly dazed. “Right,” he said. “Yeah, sure. Um, Your Highness.”

Draco grimaced and turned back to Zabini, glaring once more. “Get your fucking food, you arse.”

Several minutes later, after Blaise had selected several hand pies and Weasley had wrapped them in brown paper for him, accepting a handful of gold coins in return, the pair exited the shop. “Blimey,” they could hear from behind them as the door swung shut. 

“Come along, then,” Draco directed, and the two men made their way back to the carriage to find the Dursley cottage.

\---------

The cottage was, as Weasley had said, impossible to miss. It wasn’t long before Draco and Blaise stood at the door. Taking a deep breath, Draco knocked. Nothing happened. After a few moments, he knocked again, more firmly. This time, he could hear approaching footsteps, as well as muttered curses. Then, the door was flung open.

“What do you want?” uttered the massive mustachioed man standing before them. 

Draco looked up at him, his face a mask of indifference, Blaise standing behind his left shoulder looking vaguely intimidating in an expressionless sort of way. “Is this the Dursley residence?” Draco inquired coolly. 

“I can’t see how that’s any of your business,” the man at the door answered angrily. “I don’t know who you are, and you’ve interrupted our tea. Go away.”

Ignoring him, Draco pushed on. “I’m looking for a young man called Harry Potter.”

At this, the man Draco assumed was Harry’s uncle went red in the face. “There’s no one by that name here!” he yelled, sounding slightly deranged, before slamming the door in Draco’s face. While Draco stood there, shocked, they could hear the man’s footsteps retreating, followed by a loud banging and shouting. “HOW DARE YOU GIVE PEOPLE THIS ADDRESS,” they could hear clearly through the door. “I HAVE HALF A MIND TO—”

Draco knocked on the door again, more loudly this time, raising his voice to be heard over the ruckus. “Mr. Dursley, I demand that you open this door!” 

There were scuffling sounds and harsh whispers before the door swung open again. This time, a pinch-faced woman answered. “What?” she asked sharply.

“I’ve come to see Harry Potter,” Draco reiterated.

“Well, you can’t,” the woman returned rudely. Draco raised an eyebrow and stayed silent, but as the woman made to slam the door shut again, Blaise stepped forward and stopped it with one hand. 

“I really wouldn’t speak to him that way if I were you,” he said with a smirk.

“And why not?” the woman huffed, letting go of the door and crossing her arms confrontationally. 

“Ah, I believe I forgot to introduce myself,” Draco answered with a dangerous smile. 

Blaise smirked even harder, before making an exaggerated bow in Draco’s direction, holding out one arm to gesture elegantly at him. “May I present to you Prince Draco Lucius Abraxus Septimus Malfoy, heir to the throne.”

  


**Harry**

Harry had been lying on his bed, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling of his cupboard in the dim light that leaked through the cracks around the door, when the ruckus started. There was knocking, and then voices, which Harry listened to curiously. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but then a door slammed and suddenly Vernon was pounding on the door of the cupboard. Harry sat up, startled. 

“HOW DARE YOU GIVE PEOPLE THIS ADDRESS,” his uncle screamed, and Harry, shocked by the idea of someone turning up here to see _him_ , tuned out the rest of Vernon’s tirade as he tried to think. Who knew he lived here? Ron and Hermione, he supposed, but they would have known better than to seek him out here. Wouldn’t they? 

The knocking on the outer door started again, louder, and his uncle stomped away. This time when he heard the door open, Harry made an effort to listen. 

There was the shrill sound of Aunt Petunia and then… that voice. He knew that voice; had spent an entire evening listening to it — teasing and flirting and charming and sincere in turns — just hours before. Harry could feel his heart pounding in his chest. It couldn’t be. How could the prince even have found him here? And more importantly, _why_ would he have? Harry had almost convinced himself that he must be imagining things when an amused voice announced, in a carrying tone that allowed him to hear every word perfectly: 

“May I present to you Prince Draco Lucius Abraxus Septimus Malfoy, heir to the throne.”

Harry was frozen. How could this be happening? He was _here_. The prince had found him _HERE._ He had gone through the trouble of finding out who Harry was and where he lived, and, even knowing just how unsuitable a match Harry must be for him, he had come for him! And Harry… Harry was trapped in a fucking _cupboard._ With a growl of frustration, he kicked ineffectually at the door. “LET ME OUT!” he yelled, desperate to get out before the prince got fed up with the Dursleys’ antics and left. “LET ME _OUT,_ DAMN YOU!” He had to get out of this cupboard. He _had_ to. He tried to channel his magic, to find some way to use it to free himself, but nothing worked. With a cry of despair, he sunk to the floor. This was useless. There was nothing he could do.

Suddenly, he realized that it was silent in the kitchen. Then, footsteps approached the cupboard. They didn’t sound like his aunt or uncle, or even Dudley; Harry had learned to differentiate between their different strides over the years. The steps stopped outside the cupboard door, and Harry heard a quiet voice — a _familiar_ voice — murmur an unfamiliar word.

_“Alohomora.”_

With a click, the door unlocked and swung open. Harry blinked in the light. A pale, elegant hand reached toward him invitingly, and Harry took it without thinking, pulling himself out of the cupboard and to his feet. 

Before him, grasping his hand, was a beautiful young man. Tall and lithe, with smooth, pale skin, silky, almost-white hair, and — Harry froze as he caught the other man’s gaze — shining, shockingly silver eyes. If he hadn’t known yet who the man was, he certainly would now. There was no mistaking those eyes. “Thanks,” Harry managed to get out after a long, silent moment, unsure of what else to say. 

The man nodded, his gaze intense, as though he was afraid Harry would disappear if he looked away. He dropped Harry’s hand, and Harry felt the loss immediately. However, once he’d released Harry, the prince reached toward his face, one long finger barely grazing the thick frames of Harry’s spectacles. “May I?” he asked. Harry nodded.

With great care, the prince removed Harry’s spectacles. He was standing close enough that Harry could see him clearly, even without the lenses. The man’s eyes met his once more, and Harry could see the relief in them. The hand not holding Harry’s spectacles rose, and a soft thumb traced the sensitive skin below his eye. “I knew it was you,” he said softly, never looking away from Harry’s gaze. “I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.” Harry felt himself flush as the prince gave him a half smile. “So, when you said you didn’t get out much…?”

“Yeah…” Harry answered, embarrassed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were. I never would have—”

“Never would have what? Spoken to me? Danced with me? Made me enjoy the evening more than I’ve enjoyed a ball in ages?” the prince’s voice was amused.

“No! I mean, yes! I mean… I don’t know what I mean,” Harry finished. He wasn’t even remotely sure what else to say. What on earth were you _supposed_ to say when a prince showed up on your doorstep and broke you out of a cupboard? “Erm… thank you?” he finally settled lamely on.

The prince broke into a grin. “Don’t mention it,” he replied. Some of his teasing humor from the night before entered his voice as he continued, “I’m sorry to drop in unannounced, but…” he pulled something from behind his back and held it out to Harry. It was the beautiful feathered mask that Harry had dropped as he fled the ball. Harry gasped. “I believe this belongs to you,” the man finished.

Harry stared at the mask in awe, reaching out one shaking hand toward it hesitantly before finally taking it. “Thank you,” he said again, looking back up at the prince. “I thought this was gone. I… thank you.”

“Of course,” the blond answered. Then he held out his hand toward Harry, and Harry looked down at it, confused, before looking up again. “I must apologize, I neglected to give you my name last evening. I’m Draco, Draco Malfoy.” 

Harry let out a surprised laugh before taking Draco’s hand in his own and shaking it firmly. “Harry. Harry Potter.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Harry Potter,” Draco replied, his face almost glowing with happiness. And then, like it was nothing at all, he pulled Harry in close and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended for this to be the last chapter, but I realized that I didn't want the final bit to be in either of the boys' perspective once they're well and truly together. I'm posting the epilogue now, though, so you don't have to wait for the ending!


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our protagonists get their happy ending.

While Harry’s attention had been fully focused on Draco, the rest of the kitchen had fallen silent. As soon as Draco’s full name had been announced by Blaise, Aunt Petunia’s hand had flown to her face, which had paled to a sickly hue. Vernon had looked ready to yell some more, but Blaise had thrown him a threatening look, slipping a wand from his sleeve and twirling it gently, and the man had immediately clamped his mouth shut, though still looking furious. Dudley, who had come downstairs to see what all the ruckus was about, stood slack-jawed at the bottom of the staircase.

When the prince kissed Harry, Petunia had gasped audibly, while Vernon looked even more murderous. Dudley’s expression didn’t change.

When Draco pulled back, Harry looked stunned, his eyes wide and his cheeks red. He blinked a few times, as though unsure that the kiss had actually happened. Draco turned to face the Dursleys, acknowledging them for the first time since he’d brushed past them to get to the cupboard. “Harry will be coming with me,” he announced, his tone brooking no argument. Turning back to Harry, he smiled. “Would you like me to help collect your things?”

Harry’s eyes were still wide, but he shook his head dazedly at the question. “No, that’s… that’s fine, I don’t have much.”

Draco looked uncertain at Harry’s expression and hesitant answer. “That is, if you want to come?” he asked. “I shouldn’t have assumed, I’m sorry.”

At that, Harry seemed to snap out of his stupor. “Do I want to come with you? Leave the Dursleys? Are you crazy?” Draco’s face began to fall, but Harry continued immediately: “Of _course_ I want to come with you!” 

A grin spread across Draco’s face, his eyes sparkling. “Oh thank god,” he said, and then, wryly, “my parents would have been rather disappointed if I’d come home alone after all that.”

The delight which had lit Harry’s face just moments before faded. “Right, you parents. The King and Queen.” He stared down at his feet, suddenly wondering just what was happening. “Where… I mean, what… I…” he couldn’t finish his sentence, unsure of what he was trying to ask.

“I told them I’d like you to come live at the palace,” Draco said. When Harry didn’t respond immediately, he went on, “I’m not proposing, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Harry flinched, and Draco quickly added, “at least not yet! We’ve barely met, that would be ludicrous. I wouldn’t ask that of anyone, let alone agree to it myself. But I’d like to get to know you better, perhaps see if we’re as well suited as it seemed that we might be last night. Besides, I promised I would make sure you learned to channel your powers; at the palace you’ll have access to the best instructors.” He reached forward, gently weaving his fingers with Harry’s. “Come with me?” he asked, his voice sincere.

Harry finally looked up, and his face was conflicted. “I told you last night, I’m not a good match for a prince. I’m…” he waved his hand vaguely around the room, trying not to look at his family, who were still standing by as though frozen. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “And I told _you_ last night, I think you’re an ideal candidate.”

“ _Why?”_ Harry couldn’t help but ask.

“Because you are; why else would I have said so? You’re friendly, and funny, and not jaded by years and years of court politics. I told you, nobles are boring. And honestly, looking at where you came from, I want to know you more now than I already did. You’re... extraordinary.”

“I’m not,” Harry argued. “I’m nothing special. I’m… just Harry. Why would you want me, of all people?” 

At this, Draco smiled. “You liked me before you knew who I was. You let me kiss you, not because you wanted a prince, but because you wanted _me._ That’s never happened before. Not once in my life.”

Harry blinked back a tear and bit his lip. “You really want me to come with you?”

“I really want you to come with me. You don’t have to promise me anything, just… come. Get to know me. Learn to use your magic. Will you come?”

Finally, Harry smiled, laughing — happy and disbelieving — even as he wiped at the tears still threatening to fall from his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll come.”

\---------

After that, there wasn’t much left to say. The Dursleys obviously wanted to put up a fight but were too scared to go against royalty. Harry collected his small bag of clothes, which Draco wrinkled his nose at while promising that they would get him a more suitable wardrobe as soon as possible. Blaise stood by the door, smirking as Mr. and Mrs. Dursley stewed in their own impotent rage. And then, finally, the three of them left, closing the door behind them with a satisfying _thunk_ of finality. As they climbed into the waiting carriage, Harry never once looked back.

When they were settled, Draco and Harry on one side, Blaise across from them, Draco looked over at his new companion and grinned lasciviously. “I’d quite like to kiss you again now,” he said, his voice low.

“I’d rather like that, too,” Harry said, grinning. And then Draco’s lips were on Harry’s, soft and firm at once, and then his tongue was darting out to flick at Harry’s lips, causing Harry to huff out a surprised breath before quickly reciprocating, and soon the two were lost completely in one another, not even taking notice of Blaise’s snort of disgust.

“Right, I’m riding up front with the driver,” he announced with a roll of his eyes and a put-upon sigh, though his eyes were full of laughter. Knocking sharply to indicate to the driver that he should stop, he gracefully exited the carriage and climbed into the front seat. “Carry on,” he directed, and the man urged the horses back into motion. Inside the carriage, Harry and Draco were oblivious to the entire scene. As the carriage travelled past the bakery, Blaise gave a salute and a wink to Ron through the window, receiving a grin and a wave in return.

And so they returned to the palace, where Queen Narcissa was delighted, and King Lucius was skeptical until he noted the bright shade of Harry’s eyes (after which he became quite a bit less chilly, even if he did still eye Harry’s clothes with undisguised distaste). Harry was set up in a suite of his own and was soon learning magic, spending time with Draco (whose dramatics and wit and sardonic remarks were tempered by genuine smiles and affection and delight as he introduced Harry to the world outside his small village), and just generally being happy for the first time in as long as he could remember. He knew that he wouldn’t be content allowing the royal family to take care of him forever — after a lifetime of neglect at the hands of people who were completely in control of his life, the idea of owing anyone for his basic needs was uncomfortable at best — but magic was a lucrative trade, and in the meantime he decided to enjoy the novelty of clothing that fit, full meals, and warm baths, while also unabashedly reveling in the company of the man that he was quickly falling in love with.

Over the next year, Harry learned to trust that his life had well and truly changed, and Draco learned to appreciate what he had and tone down his spoiled behavior (although he still lapsed from time to time), and the two men’s relationship grew and thrived until, when they finally married, they were not only partners but the best of friends.

And despite their tendency towards teasing and bickering and generally annoying everyone around them with their ridiculous brand of romance, the pair lived happily ever after. 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for sticking with me through this story! I had a wonderful time writing it, and I hope you enjoyed reading it just as much. If you did, please leave kudos and comments - they mean the world to me! You can also find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gallifrey1sburning) if you want to say hi or see my character illustrations and whatnot. I may draw these versions of Harry and Draco at some point, once I get through my current portrait series!
> 
> Thank you once more to my amazing and supportive beta readers, [dexiha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexiha) and [mx_maneater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mx_maneater). Your feedback and enthusiasm helped me write a better story!


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